


Changing Plans

by Jager1der1fics



Category: Code Geass, マブラヴ | Muv-Luv
Genre: Crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-17 23:04:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21851134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jager1der1fics/pseuds/Jager1der1fics
Summary: The Path is no longer set, a new piece has joined the board.
Kudos: 1





	Changing Plans

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome everyone to my first posted story on Archive of our Own. This is a plot bunny that's been haunting me for a while in one form or another, so I thought I'd give it a try. Read and enjoy!

"Echo Actual to Echo Five, status?"

"Status nominal, over."

"Echo Two, fuel status?"

"Echo Actual, we are at sixty percent. No contacts at this time."

"Copy, resume patrol."

"Roger Actual."

"Roger that Echo Actual. Christ this is boring."

The headset clicked when he switched his mic off, letting out a groan as he leaned back in his seat. Below him the VBL scout truck jostled and rattled due to the rough stretch of dirt his map called a road, hitting bump after bump at a steady sixty kilometers per hour. He didn't mind too much however; this wasn't the first time he took a poor road, and the only way it would be the last was if the convoy came under attack.

Sparing a peek at his driver, Captain Matthias Bindl took note of the sergeant's intense boredom. Sighing under his breath, he shifted a stiff leg only to wince; at barely thirty years old he was way too young to feel decrepit, but thanks to a mass of scar tissue on his foot walking normally was almost impossible, making him hobble along like his grandfather. His handsome face wasn't wrinkled and his blond buzz cut didn't have a speck of gray, yet he practically needed a cane to get around. For the umpteenth time he cursed that stray bullet that hit him during his last battle, even as he thanked God he was only shot there. Much more fortunate than too many other good men.

Dismissing his petty complaints, Bindl went back to listening to the platoon's comm chatter and watching the APC in front of them, feeling the ineffectual air conditioning blowing on his thigh. Even with his flak jacket undone, he felt itchy and sweaty from the heavy burden, to say nothing about the grimy hair underneath his helmet. He attempted to lean on the door, but the intense sunlight emanating from the plexiglass window moved him quickly. His airy beige fatigues did nothing to help insulate against the scorching heat.

"My my the desert is lovely. I just love being in the middle of nowhere."

"You said it Four, what're we even doing out here?"

"Because Command said so, unless you want to freeze your balls off in Siberia playing with Russians."

"Colds better than this goddamn heat. You can always put more layers on."

"Take it you never got frostbite newbie?"

"Least he still has his dick in one piece Five." Laughter filled his headset, along with an irate curse he recognized as Finnish.

Though he was tempted to add a remark to the net, Bindl instead glanced out his window. Past a rocky stretch of desert was a palette of shimmering blue, the Mediterranean Sea looking so clean and inviting to his bored mind. The sight made him think of his childhood days vacationing on the coast of the Adriatic; visiting local churches, enjoying the country without the sanitized filter of the tourist havens, swimming in crystal clear water, it was a place free of the stresses of modern life. To this day those were his favorite memories.

Shaking his head, he went back to scanning the landscape. There wasn't any towns or cities around here owing to the inhospitable terrain, leaving the sector practically uninhabited. All save for the road his six vehicle convoy was taking, four Tpz Fuchs transports and two VBL scout vehicles at the front and rear, sweeping this area for any hostile scouts.

In the two hours since the platoon strength unit left, they hadn't seen a soul. Not locals, not EU forces, and luckily not the imperialist slavers trying to conquer Africa.

"Thank god." he mumbled under his breath, not loud enough to be heard over the engine. He knew that would change soon enough, especially if this unknown he was dispatched to investigate turned out to be the enemy. Admittedly a short lived surge of radio traffic in this region didn't sound like a combat situation, unlike what would happen if their luck ran out.

"I spy with my little eye…"

"A rock. Cut it out Two, you're on the clock."

"Affirmative Echo Actual, just trying to keep sharp."

"Sure sure. Tell ya what Two, next time bring your guitar."

"Screw that you Serbian prick, I'm grabbing my bagpipes."

Dismissing his thoughts, Bindl shuffled in place to grab his tablet from between the center console, booting up the hardy device to get some work done. Mainly drafting personnel reports for his company, sending them off to his parent Brigade's staff, currently headquartered at Alger alongside two other formations. Though he still considered paperwork the bane of his existence, he had a newfound appreciation for it after his last engagement. At least this didn't risk blowing off his leg.

After minutes of high octane boredom Bindl clicked the headset again, setting his mic to on; the lieutenant in the convoy's central Fuchs transport technically should've been doing this, it was his job after all, but he wanted to gauge the men's response for himself. It was the reason he dispatched three squads, thirty five men altogether, on a single patrol with him in tow rather than track them from headquarters. Well, that and he wanted some fresh air outside of the firebase, even if leaving his company behind meant fresh paperwork to do.

"Echo unit, anything?" he said, expecting very little.

"Negative Echo Six."

"Negative."

"Nein, erm, negative." Bindl made a quick note to discipline that man for the slip. Most of the unit were green troops fresh out of training, so he needed to make sure they were ready when they inevitably went into combat. Some basic recon would help in this regard, far better than simply throwing them against Britannian guns.

"All clear Six. Until we hit Mostaganem there's nothing out here." went the platoon's Lieutenant, named Ingolf. A Swede if he remembered right, fresh out of Budapest's military academy with more ambition than experience.

Not far from the frontlines Bindl remembered, grimacing at the very idea. According to news, the enemy surged over Morocco's former border in two massive thrusts, one detouring around the Atlas Mountains on the way to Ghardaīa, and the other hugging the coastline towards the Algerian Protectorate's capital. Neither force were particularly speedy, thanks to unfriendly terrain and lackluster infrastructure, but they were still making excellent progress.

Two mechanized divisions were heading in his direction claimed reports, driving towards a string of cities defended by three European Union brigades and two Algerian infantry divisions. While he held a low opinion of the native troops, together the two allied forces had the collective might to stop the enemy advance cold.

"Hopefully."

Again Bindl thought that the Holy Britannian Empire shouldn't have been able to even land in Africa. Not after their costly and blatantly illegal invasion of the Middle Eastern Federation, but here they were with no signs of slowing down. And if the rumors were true, they somehow landed an army in Vladivostok last week, starting a huge offensive before the Russian Federation even realized they were under attack. Three different theaters across two continents, each effectively under the control of the European Union. All while an open insurgency battled occupation troops in the Philippines, and a growing resistance movement festered in Japan. It was madness.

So why weren't they stopped? Why didn't their oppressed subjects rise up en masse? Why weren't their commoner subclass revolting against their overprivileged tyrants? Just how could such a fractured patchwork of petty inbred fools make so much headway? Britannia's sheer success boggled his mind, while the EU struggled to even keep public interest in the war. He couldn't make sense of it.

Taking a deep breath as he unclenched his fist, Bindl checked on the trooper in the open backseat, currently manning an automatic grenade launcher in the face of the wind. He only saw the man's legs, which swiveled every few seconds as he searched around. A plus in his book. Checking on the driver, he caught the man glancing away in a hurry rather than meet his gaze. Luckily for him a rattle from the enclosed backseat took up his attention, twisting around to see cases of heavy bandoliers still where the men left them, secure and not spilling out like he feared.

The platoon was outfitted with anti-armor weapons, perfect for cutting those accursed Knightmares down to size. With their firebase roughly fifty kilometers away sporting a new airstrip, helicopters could be deployed to their location in a hurry, not to mention it ensured fighter cover would keep the Britannians from contesting their airspace. There wouldn't have a problem, not here.

Bindl's radio clicked again, Ingolf's crisp voice subtly asserting his authority. "Echo Unit, report."

"Not a thing Actual."

"Negative contacts."

"Zero activity here-wait."

Bindl picked up, catching the enlisted men stiffening at the same time. Just like him they recognized the shift in tone.

"What do you got Echo Two?"

"Unsure, but there's something out at sea."

Raising a brow, he heard scoffs from the rest of the net. The only vessels in the Mediterranean belonged to the Union, not unless the Britannians stole local ships without alerting anyone. Either the contact was a civilian freighter on a travel route, or it was an EU Frigate making sure nothing unwelcome slipped through the Straits of Gibraltar, or slithered out from the former MEF's ports. Especially after that weird out of season storm last week, which disrupted communications from Valencia to Sicily. A ship out here was normal.

Except there wasn't supposed to be anything in this sector.

"Stop here." Bindl commanded, pressing into his seatbelt when the VBL came to a skidding halt. Just ahead of the vehicle's front bumper was a slab of thick plating, the Fuchs possessing enough clearance to open its back hatch. He mentally congratulated his driving, but docked points when he glanced to him for further orders rather than scan the area himself.

"Eyes open, watch for hostiles." Ingolf ordered over the radio. Though he wasn't in danger, Bindl felt for his holstered sidearm just in case; Britannians usually targeted heavier vehicles first, but there were never any guarantees in combat. Not to mention the omnipresent risk of Berber nationalists, who remained unruly terrorists even with the real enemy on the march.

Spying the troops dismounting with practiced care, Bindl elected to peer at the Mediterranean once again, idly rooting around the cab for his binoculars until he grasped its hot polymer casing. Rolling the dirt strewn windows down gave him an unobstructed view of the beautiful sea, making him shake his head to get back on track.

Sweeping the binoculars across the shimmering water, he had to squint when the glare struck his eyes without mercy, for several long seconds almost blinding him. Gritting his teeth, he brought the optics up again to keep looking. Exiting the VBL would give him a better view, but at the moment he didn't consider it necessary. And with his leg, such an act needed to be worth the ri-

"There!"

All around his vehicle the men glanced, focusing on the lone trooper pointing a hand. Not everyone looked at once he noted approvingly, sweeping around to ensure their other avenues were covered. Each man had their weapon hefted at the ready, mounted guns swiveled periodically, and a crackle from his radio told him Ingolf was calling it in, a glance at his direction showing he was still inside his Fuchs.

"Echo Actual to Command, we have an unidentified ship at coordinates…" Bindl should've listened to make sure the right location was given, but he had bigger concerns.

Narrowing his eyes, he leaned out of his window with his binoculars pressed into his socket. He winced and hissed when his hand touched the boiling hot metal outside, but he was more upset at losing track of his target than scalding himself. It was right over… there.

The second he centered on the image, his blood ran cold.

Their contact was a squat aircraft carrier, slowly prowling across the Mediterranean Sea a few dozen kilometers from their position. A flat deck missing the assistive ramps which characterized European and Chinese made carriers, the lone conn tower in the center topped by a tall radio mast, and colored a dull gray, the medium sized vessel was hard to mistake, and with a battlefield raging so very close to here, its purpose was obvious. Though curiously, there seemed to be plenty of red streaks along its waterline. Unusual to see but far from unheard of, especially for older ships.

Bindl flinched when his view unexpectedly went dark, jerking his binoculars down to discover Ingolf halting at his door, hunching over to speak. Uniform immaculate despite the heat, his angular expression shown with grim concern.

"Sir, there's not supposed to be any ships in this area. Two fighters are inbound from Relizane to investigate, but I was ordered by Colonel Alvaro to return to base immediately." he said softly, his own blond hair appearing greasy all of a sudden to Bindl's perspective.

He nodded with the same feeling, internally glad to see some sense in the young man. "I agree. Order the unit to pack up-"

"Sir!" bellowed a soldier from the command Fuchs, standing up from the hatch with clear alarm. "Detecting a radio transmission!"

"Frequency?! Ours?" Ingolf yelled back, though Bindl could guess the answer.

"Negative!"

Immediately both men pawed at their headsets, tuning the devices through different channels. The elder of the pair grimaced at the static assaulting his ears, crackly and intelligible no matter what he did; fragments of civilian traffic, bits of military transmissions from all over the region, even a short blast of Arabic that made him wince at the volume, until finally he located the source.

"-anted Wardog Squadron… cleared for launch… T-minus one mike, mark."

The speaker wasn't in French, the lingua franca across Europe and Africa, but in English. Only one nation on the planet spoke it predominantly.

Ignoring his aching foot, Bindl threw the door open to stumble out to the coastal desert. Heedless of the danger, he brought his optics back up to realign on the unknown ship; he had no idea how a carrier made it all the way here alone, much less without being discovered, but at the moment that didn't matter.

"Lieutenant Ingolf, update command. We have a confirmed Britannian ship near our position." he barked, scanning furiously for hostiles.

"Roger, combat positions!" he snarled as he sprinted back towards the Fuchs, while the troops hefted weapons and hunched around whatever cover they had. Terror clouded each man's face, but they acted with little hesitancy to get ready.

Bindl's conceded to getting behind an APC, though his eyes didn't leave the warship. He watched for any sign of hostility, ignoring unimportant thoughts bubbling in the back of his mind. Namely that a launched fighter would be in strafing range within a minute, assuming of course the ship didn't lob a few missiles at them instead. A tiny part of him again wondered just where they came from, but he had to shelve his questions for now.

His radio went off once more, much clearer now. "Launch, good luck Wardogs."

When a dark shape departed the carrier he tensed up, grimacing as a trooper crouched down right beside him. Bindl focused on the ship to count: first one, then two fighters launched, swiftly followed by a third. He had to blink at the way they left however, rising up from the flattop almost vertically before taking off; the EU favored VTOLs for their carriers, but the Britannians only had a few variants still in service. One here was odd to put it lightly. When a fourth departed he swiveled to the jets, idly noting that each plane was almost skimming the sea surface.

"One fighter inbound!" someone yelled, making him grip his binoculars tighter. The truth was he was terrified; four planes may not have sounded intimidating, but the platoon didn't have more than a couple AA launchers stowed away. And for as much as he hated to admit it, the EU's standard 'Pfeil' portable interception missiles weren't as useful as they were fifteen years ago.

While the rest of the flight scattered in different directions, one fighter grew steadily larger, quite plainly heading their way. Baring his teeth to control his unsteady breathing, Bindl hefted his binoculars to try to determine what it had for armaments. After changing the magnification he needed just seconds to relocate the enemy jet-

"Wait a sec." he muttered, ignoring the trooper at his flank sending him a puzzled look. Raising a brow, he gripped both hands on his binoculars to track the incoming flyer.

Once he caught it again, Bindl mouthed a wordless question under his breath. Unless he was deeply mistaken, the faded grey 'jet' appeared to have legs hanging below its hull, two bright engines spaced widely apart, and what he thought were arms hanging off the sides. There were no signs of wings, bomb laden or not, and it definitely lacked the bullet-like nose of any other jet in service. In fact, it didn't look like a plane at all.

"A Knightmare?" he mumbled, utterly baffled the more he saw. Seconds later and his brow creased. "No…"

Commotion tore his attention away; he glanced over his shoulder to discover Ingolf with a rifle in hand, scrambling around the parked vehicles yelling orders to the fearful men, only just making sure they complied before moving on to the next team. His projected aura of command wasn't enough to mask his own terror, not by a long shot.

"Launchers out, move move move!" he barked, jabbing a hand for two men scrambling behind a Fuchs, handling a long tube and a large case as they fell into a crouch.

Returning to their unusual contact, Bindl peered through his binoculars for any more details. He wasn't quite sure what to look for, but he knew exactly what it was the very second he spotted it, the momentary sight enough to make his eyes widen.

Ingolf glanced between the team and the target, breaking out in a cold sweat. "Lock on and-"

"Wait hold fire!" Bindl shouted, bolting to his feet with a snarl. No matter how much pain he was in he swiped a hand overhead, twisting around to make sure they stopped.

"Captain!?" he barked in evident confusion, with the missile armed duo exchanging a stunned look. They weren't the only ones; most of the troops in visual range sent him a sharp glance, lasting seconds before they swiveled back to the incoming flyer.

Hissing as he shifted his weight, Bindl prepared himself. "This thing isn't Britannian."

"How do you know sir? We don't have anything like that!" Ingolf retorted much faster than he anticipated. By now the whining sound of its engines were reaching them, they didn't have much time left to intercept it.

"Neither do the Britannians. But even if they did, why would they put a Japanese flag on the hull?" he barked. Upon noticing his weapon's telescoped optics, he stabbed a hand behind him in a silent command.

With a grumble Ingolf complied, bringing up his weapon to peer down his scope, several of the men with the right equipment copying him. Bindl was about to return to their incoming target, but the way he lowered the rifle halted him, his look of sheer befuddlement definitely encouraging.

"Is that thing being flown by Elevens?" Immediately Bindl had to stop himself, clenching a fist rather than correcting him; now wasn't the time to quibble over names. Then Ingolf's brow narrowed considerably. "Doesn't matter, take it down."

"Hold your fire." he snapped at the team, swiveling back to his balking subordinate. "You are not firing on that thing without my say-so."

Ingolf stomped a foot on the dusty soil in an evident challenge. "Captain, Area Eleven is part of Britannia, there's no reason to suspect its friend-" 

"That is an order Lieutenant." Bindl almost growled. He stared down the younger man, unmoving as Ingolf retreated a step. In the back of his mind he suddenly considered the likelihood of a mutiny; there hadn't been a true rebellion in the EU military since the bloody Russo-Ottoman wars a hundred years ago, but for an army originally built by revolutionaries, it remained a possibility even now. Ice gripped his veins when he realized the platoon could simply claim he was killed in action and no one would be the wiser.

Only his iron discipline kept him together when Ingolf lowered his arms. "Understood, sir."

Before he could reply, Bindl found that the roar was getting very loud. Whipping around, he abruptly discovered that the contact, some kind of Knightmare, was practically on top of them.

A shadow passed overhead, but he barely noticed; the wind turned from nonexistent to a cyclone level gale instantaneously, so strong he was just about ripped off his feet. Stumbling and hacking for air, he waved his arms fruitlessly to dispel the dust cloud yanked from the topsoil, while the men huddled and covered themselves the best they could. Wiping his stinging eyes with a dirty sleeve, he swung his head left and right until he located it again.

A snarl left him at seeing the flying Knightmare shrinking, gaining enough altitude for him to see it departing further inland. An idea struck him; clicking his radio headset, he switched back to the same frequency he first heard english on.

"Unknown flyer, this is Echo unit. Identify yourself." Bindl had to shout over the diminishing roar, groaning as he shifted his weight. For several seconds nothing happened, earning a snarl. "I say again, this is Echo unit to the machine who flew over my convoy. State your name and nationality."

The flyer banked, curving around in a wide circle to lead back towards them. Once he was sure it was returning, Bindl congratulated himself for his quick thinking, right before he considered the possibility that it really was Britannian. In which case he just signed his own death warrant. But it was too late to back out now.

His radio went off again, except… he raised a brow at the speech coming out of his headset. He didn't understand a word they said, except he recognized the speaker was female, one that sounded authoritative and definitely not in the mood for games. There was a click, and suddenly a bizarre synthetic voice was dubbed over the woman.

"Echo Unit, state your name and nation of origin. You have thirty seconds to comply, start." went the mechanical reply in french, but in a dialect he never heard before, a fact he wasn't sure was possible. 

Ingolf sent him a dirty look, but he chose to disregard it in favor of replying. "We are part of the 149th Panzergrenadier Brigade. Again, identify yourself."

Despite himself Bindl lowered his stance a small bit when the flyer approached again, dipping down to almost drag its feet on the desert surface. He couldn't help grimacing; even if the platoon did unleash their tiny AA stockpile, there was little chance their missiles could hit at that altitude. The rest of their AT munitions soothed his fears, but not enough to feel confident.

Once again the machine cruised overhead, but much slower this time, enough to feel the scorching exhaust from its multiple jet engines. Now that he only needed to hold up an arm to protect his face, Bindl suddenly discovered the mech was enormous; its shadow engulfed the Fuchs adjacent to him entirely, dark enough to seem like an early nightfall. At least until more dust was kicked up by the backwash, blinding him and sending wads of sand into his mouth.

He gasped and hacked so much he missed the sunlight returning, making a haze so thick he couldn't see more than a few indistinct outlines where the closest men were. The forms he could barely see were shifting around, evidently copying him as best they could, and were having about as much success.

"Ah, Scheiße." he cursed and coughed simultaneously, wiping at his eyes again and again. The dust just started to settle when the ground beneath him thumped from a concussive impact, rattling him and startling every man he could hear over the engines, which sounded very much like they were winding down.

Lowering his hand, Bindl swept his gaze back and forth until he spotted the flyer, announcing its location to them in a whine of servos and a rumble of what he was sure was a footstep. Checking to make sure the platoon was recovering, he stood up straight to finally examine their unknown contact in detail, seeing it shift its weight a short distance away.

Its shoulders were broad and its legs were long, with sizable vanes on its forearms and rounded knee pads, all sleek and aerodynamic. The head peering down on them held a pair of swept back antennas over a rounded top, together with a sizable chin component making its blue recessed visor appear like it was squinting. He spotted two huge jet engines at its rear, both swiveling machines looking like they were ripped out of a true fighter. Clamped onto its back was a sword, looking almost like the love child of a cutlass and a japanese katana.

In addition to everything else, he blanched upon realizing this machine held a pair of twin barreled rifles in each hand, both guns sweeping over the parked convoy. And as he spotted first, it was painted a faded gray, with a red circle proudly displayed on the right of its broad shoulders.

Oh, and it had to be at least seventeen meters tall.

"Ah hell." someone behind him muttered, the fear seeping off him and everyone else. However much Bindl wanted to agree, a frown creased his features the closer he looked, noting details which didn't make sense. Like the dents in several spots all over its body, off colored machinery on its arms and knees which looked to be jury rigged, and multiple patches of scuffed metal (or at least it looked like metal) all over, especially around its feet. Even the twin guns appeared used and abused to his eyes.

"What are you?" he mumbled quietly, trying to reconcile the super Knightmare's ragged state with its never before seen appearance. A much harder task than accepting its giant guns pointed at them, especially as one passed right over him for several long seconds. At least he knew how to handle that.

A loudspeaker crackling on made him flinch, as much as doing so stung at his pride. As one the entire platoon trained every weapon they had upon the machine, from rifles and machine guns all the way to their new laser guided missiles, returning its silent threat with their own.

"Echo Unit, identify your leader." went the synthetic voice.

Sparing a glance at a sour faced Ingolf, Bindl let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. This was his idea, his order. He had to take care of this himself.

Twitching his expression from every step, Bindl snapped his fingers and pointed, and in just seconds a trooper retrieved a megaphone from his VBL to shove into his hands, departing for cover without an acknowledgement. Not that he was in the mood to admonish him. Making sure the battery was good, he walked slowly to the far side of the Fuchs and clicked it on; the split second high pitched screech made him wince, but still he brought it up to his mouth.

"Captain Matthias Bindl of the 149th Panzergrenadier brigade, North African Command." he paused, not to catch his breath but to gauge the machine's response.

The giant's legs were still, but its arms swung up and down with a whine of servos, both shoulders rising and falling with the movements. It gave the distinct impression of mulling over his statement. A part of him considered the level of dexterity extraordinary, though admittedly his only similar experience was a month of familiarity training on a Panzer-Hummel, enough to drive one if he ever fell in the cockpit. A bit more if he counted the canned Britannian propaganda from Area Eleven, regarding that new white Knightmare the media reported on lately.

Again it's loudspeaker crackled, though it made no sound for a moment. "Are you at war?"

Bindl hesitated. Of all things he expected the pilot to say, that was far from the first. And though he didn't dare take his eyes off the super Knightmare, he heard the men behind him stirring in their own way.

"We are." he spoke grimly into his megaphone.

"How long?" 

This time Bindl groaned, features twitching when he shifted his foot. "Roughly a year."

To his astonishment the machine lowered its rifles, hanging them closer to its hips rather than pointed at the convoy. He just started to feel relief when he heard a sharp clank from the machine, the cause being something he missed for several seconds: the center of its chest was sliding open. A hatch of some kind popped out, showing him a slab of armor plating in front of what had to be a cockpit, though from ground level he couldn't see the internals. 

Then a lone figure rose into view.

All he could tell for sure was they had brunette hair, nothing else from his vantage point. But all the same, he recognized what their intent was, though he didn't expect it to be this easy.

"Lieutenant, keep your eyes on the other contacts. If this goes sour you need to return to base immediately. Understood?" Bindl commanded without looking back, holding his binoculars and megaphone behind him for a trooper to take.

"Yes sir." Ingolf replied tersely, he hoped he wasn't imagining this was a stepping stone in his career. "Good luck."

Inhaling deeply, he took his hand away from his holster to walk, maintaining a slow pace from both choice and his inflamed foot. He forced his expression to still as he moved over the rocky soil, spacing his arms apart to show he wasn't hiding anything. On their part, the super Knightmare's pilot hitched up to an unseen cable to descend, the whine of a tiny winch reaching his ears. Thanks to the sun's position there was no shade between him and them, nothing to hide details from sight.

When he was within ten meters he was able to examine the pilot, who reached the ground to step off a tiny hook. Presented to him was a black and lime green suit, with what looked like armor padding on the arms, shoulders and hips, though the center from the neck down was covered by some kind of skin tight elastic material. It took him a few seconds to see past the draped brown hair, but there was a brace reaching up to her chin, almost like a reverse headset.

"Oh." Bindl mumbled under his breath when he finally allowed himself to process it: the pilot was a woman. Late twenties, asiatic based on her features, and sporting visible frown lines, she was practically nothing like what he expected from such a bizarre Knightmare. And her flight suit, what he assumed it to be anyway, revealed some rather… enticing assets…

She was aiming a handgun at him. Bindl internally sighed in relief; he needed the distraction. Clearing his throat from two body lengths away, he tapped on his chest before holding his arms at chest level.

"I am Captain Matthias Bindl." he greeted in rough english. A part of him was happy that his language courses were paying off, even if he knew the results left much to be desired.

The woman stared intently with no trace of mirth. But nevertheless, she used her free hand to mime him. "Major Jinguuji Marimo."

Her accent was strong, but still better than his own harsh pronunciation. Nevertheless he focused on the important parts, beside the gun she didn't take away from his chest.

He cleared his throat. "Français? Deutsch?"

"No, few words. English here." she shook her head without taking her eyes off him. "Tell me about the war." she said next, or rather demanded based on tone. 

"Ah…" Bindl scrunched up his brow, debating on what to say. He had to tell her something, she had the gun for starters, but what? "We've been at war for a year now, as I said."

"Where?" she questioned insistently.

Moving slowly, he lifted his arm to point west. Major Marimo (or was it Jinguuji? He knew Chinese naming conventions were reversed from Euro ones, but did that apply to her too?) didn't let him out of her sight, but she did trail her gaze in that direction. Despite the hair shrouding her face he caught her eyes narrowing.

"An enemy army is approaching Mostaganem, a hundred kilometers or so that way." he explained. Instead of tensing up or showing fear, she sent him a look.

"You're fighting humans?" she questioned an octave lower than earlier, her sidearm wavering.

"Yes?" he replied in confusion. "The Britannians want to conquer this entire continent."

"Britannian…" she repeated slowly, frowning in thought. She didn't appear furious at the mention, just puzzled, which served to increase his own confusion.

Bindl slowly dropped his arms. "Major, just who are you? And what is this thing?"

Marimo, he decided on that for her name, lowered the weapon at last. "I'm with the Imperial Japanese Army, Seventeenth Flight Wardogs. This is my Shiranui."

Now it was Bindl's turn to be lost. Oh the words made sense, being in English didn't change that, but the grouping, what she referred to, he had to stop just to make sense of it. Especially the part about the machine; was Shiranui the name of the giant construct, or was it the model type? The former was preferable, for imagining more than a handful of these things existing boggled his mind too much.

His unease must've shown on his face, for she wrinkled her expression as well.

"Did you understand me?" she questioned cautiously.

"Yes, but… Imperial?" he shook his head, composing himself as she raised a brow. "If you're Japanese Major, how do you not recognize the Britannians?" He cleared his throat, sparing a look over his shoulder; the platoon were still where he left them, with Ingolf poking his head up to show his uneasy mood.

This time she narrowed her gaze. "Who are they?" 

"They're, ah-" Bindl paused to rub his brow, trying to collect his thoughts. Nothing Marimo said made sense; how did she not know about the war with Britannia? Practically every European citizen found out within a day of Paris' declaration, his hometown in rural Bavaria had it as front page news for a week. For what reason did she call Japan an empire, something it ceased to be since the Pacific War forty years ago? Where'd she get this Shiranui thing from?

Most importantly, why here?

"What's wrong?" Marimo asked guardedly, hand raised but not coming any closer. Bindl opened his mouth to answer, but he abruptly went quiet, something that made her stiffen.

Stilling himself to the point where even his breath was shallow and slow, he felt his eyes going wide on their own, slowly swiveling his head from side to side. Ever since his first firefight a decade ago, he found that he had a sort of sixth sense regarding danger; while he wasn't sure if it was due to the officer's training or some natural instinct, he knew enough to trust the pit in his stomach, what it meant for him.

Bracing for the refined hell of his lingering wound, he gulped. "Major, get back inside right now."

From seemingly everywhere boomed a cacophony of gunfire. Bindl ducked and cursed as he started running, arm raised overhead for meager protection, feet stumbling across the rocky soil back to the convoy. He gasped and panted at the red hot agony making him limp at the worst time, trying desperately not to look at the puffs of dirt kicking up way too close for comfort. Whistling bullets passed by seemingly centimeters from his skin.

Despite the urgent need to *run like hell*, he risked life and limb to twist around; Marimo hunched over too, darting onto her hook as shots pinged off the super Knightmare's hull. She wasn't just running however, sticking her arm out to take potshots in the attacker's general direction while she was pulled up, features twisted into a snarl at one near miss making her flinch.

"Fire! Fire at will!" Ingolf screamed over the hellish noise, swinging his weapon around alongside a dozen men to return fire. The attackers were pouring over a tiny ridge a short distance from the road, dozens of men scrambling over terrain while shooting at them. Bindl only needed to hear their weapon's report to tell who they were, but the black armor on their darting forms cinched it.

Running behind their APCs, his troops managed to stay halfway responsive even while several men dropped, poking out to take shots at the Britannian infantry, felling a handful in seconds. Meanwhile the machine guns and grenade launchers on the other vehicles swiveled around to lend their own punishing fusillade, one gun managing to scythe down a half dozen foolish invaders in one burst, spraying blood onto the hot soil.

Bindl smashed into his VBL with a pained snarl, barely able to detect his radio going off over the gunfire as he slid behind his truck's weak protection. He heard rather than saw his vehicle's gunner die from an ill placed shot, some blood pattering on a rock a couple meters away as a final marker. In spite of that, he heard their fire start to overpower the enemy, putting down hostiles with righteous fury. For a moment he hoped the platoon had this.

But alas, the Britannians had other ideas.

From over the ridge came a quartet of brown painted machines, clearing the top at high speeds. Bipedal yet possessing rapid drive systems in their feet, the four and a half meter tall war machines known as Knightmare Frames, Sutherland models based on the hulls, opened up with machine guns and a single cannon, repaying their losses by turning one Fuchs into a fireball. Bindl flinched at the backwash of boiling heat, gasping as several of his screaming men tumbled away like rag dolls. Even as they died the other vehicles were perforated by automatic fire, their armored hulls ripped open faster than he could believe.

"Scheiße!" he shouted without hearing his own voice, seeing a zipping Knightmare easily dodge a hastily aimed missile before pasting the luckless trooper. And yet, he felt no fear.

At that moment the super Knightmare, the Shiranui, came back to life in a powerful groan of its engines, almost like a bellow of an enraged beast. All four Sutherlands immediately took their attention off the ravaged platoon to focus, the way they froze indicating just how shocked they were. But no matter what they felt as the giant lurched forward, they recovered quickly. As one the Knightmares hefted weapons to open fire. 

They were fast, but the Shiranui whipping its arms up was faster. Powerful roars of guns much bigger than theirs ripped into a pair of Sutherlands, including the cannon armed unit who didn't get the chance to fire again, catching them before either could escape. In the blink of an eye they were shredded, thick armor that could withstand small arms with impunity rent wide open in a single burst, and in near unison they exploded in a shower of fragmented steel. The other two Sutherlands swerved around to flee, but Marimo didn't let them get away, firing off a much different round which obliterated both Knightmares where they stood.

The entire time Bindl was hunched behind his VBL, awed beyond belief at the near effortless destruction. He barely noticed the remaining Britannian grunts turning tail to run, nor Ingolf running to and fro to stop the men from giving chase, settling for taking potshots at their backs. Swallowing a lump, he checked his watch; the entire fight couldn't have lasted longer than a minute.

Stopping to heft its weapons skywards, the Shiranui scanned for any more hostiles before unnervingly locking onto him. Having a giant machine staring did no favors for his shaky nerves. Still, he was quite pleased to not have that thing as an enemy.

Without warning explosions ripped across its chest, staggering the groaning Shiranui and making it stagger back as if dazed. Feeling the fresh heat and shrapnel flicking at his form, Bindl gasped at the unexpected blow hammering him, for a moment he feared the worst.

"More hostiles! Eleven'oh'clock-" the trooper yelling was flung back in a shower of blood, the first victim of a new hail of fire.

Even as the Shiranui raised an arm against a fresh shell detonating against its shoulder, Bindl was on the move, ignoring the pain to scramble to the back of the VBL. Gasping for breath, the hot metal scalding his palm didn't register as he pulled himself into the back, and neither did the sagging body he unceremoniously unclipped to toss aside. Being in a life or death situation meant he didn't hear his radio going off in an alert tone.

The sole thing to make him hesitate was seeing the opposition; a dozen more Knightmares weaving over the road towards the convoy, heavily armed and alternating between shooting the giant and them. Rasping for breath, he gripped the mounted gun and took aim at the nearest Sutherland, who ignored him to pour fire into the Shiranui. Its mistake.

He laid on the triggers without restraint, feeling the automatic grenade launcher thump in his grip. Lurching back from explosive shells slamming into its side, the Sutherland lost its balance and stumbled, making it easy prey for his weapon. Forty millimeter rounds detonated against its hull at a rate of some three or four per second, not that he was counting.

"Die you arschloch!" Bindl yelled, feeling a vicious grin at seeing the Sutherland sag into a heap, though he growled at the cockpit launching away. Swiveling the gun to his next target, he opened fire at the same time high powered shells ripped gaping holes in his VBL, inadvertently lacerating parts of his legs. He snarled without being able to hear himself.

For the Sutherland he fired at, one lucky grenade managed to destroy its factsphere in a concussive explosion, destabilizing the machine just enough to let him fire at its chest, blowing off an arm and throwing it to the ground. Before he saw the cockpit blast away to safety Bindl caught a glimpse of yet another Knightmare, this one taking aim with a gun the size of him. There was no time to stop it. This was where he was going to die.

The Sutherland split open, like a gigantic arrow punched a hole through its chest and into the cockpit. Bindl stared uncomprehendingly at the Knightmare exploding, unable to grasp how he was still alive. That was until he swept his eyes to the sides, first catching the remaining Britannians turning away from the platoon to lift their weapons skywards, and then he saw why.

From the Mediterranean came a trio of machines just like the Shiranui, opening fire with their own guns on the attackers; half the Knightmares were torn apart where they stood, dropping into perforated heaps just like the infantry around them. All three newcomers circled around during the assault, hip jets roaring as they circled the remaining enemies, cutting loose without mercy.

Yet he wasn't so engrossed to not notice more shots sailing overhead; by snapping over he discovered it was Marimo's Shiranui, scorched and scarred yet still very intact, and judging by the way the giant stomped perilously close to the remaining Europeans, very angry. Both her guns sprayed shells at the fleeing Britannians, turning Knightmares to scrap and infantry into a fine red mist. A jerk of the arm had one more shell hit the last Sutherland, obliterating it in a ball of fire.

Sagging against the siding, Bindl heaved for breath as he felt his muscles weakening, the adrenaline seeping out of his system to leave behind exhaustion. The noise level lowered significantly when the other three Shiranuis landed with rattling thumps one after the other, parking in a rough square around the ravaged platoon, making no effort to hide their tracking gazes.

Shuddering out a ragged gulp, Bindl tilted up to find the first machine seeming to slump just like he was, like it too was worn out by the fight. A hiccup of a laugh left him at the sight.

"Lieutenant Ingolf!" he croaked, turning his grim eyes towards the wrecked convoy, watching the remaining troopers rise from cover. His heart sank when he did a rough headcount, realizing that half the platoon were injured or dead.

A familiar face got up from behind a damaged Fuchs, clutching his bleeding arm while heaving. "Captain!"

Bindl opened his mouth, but he didn't know what to say. Hissing at the blood running down his cheek, he instead settled on procedure. "Tend to the wounded, I'll radio Command."

"Yes sir." he yelled before groaning, but nevertheless he trod away to help the dazed men, all of whom cast fearful looks at the Shiranuis in their midst.

"Yeah, radio." Bindl mumbled to himself, glancing to the VBL's interior to find it a splintered mess. Feeling aches all throughout his body, he hung his head and groaned, then was rattled when the bizarre machines stepped around. "What the hell am I going to tell Command?"


End file.
